


Metal and Skin

by EyeLoch



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Coping, F/M, Loss of Limbs, afterall, but vaguely using elements from it, it is Star Wars, written before "visions and voices"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EyeLoch/pseuds/EyeLoch
Summary: In which Ezra Bridger looses an arm during his encounter with the spirits of the Nightsisters on Dathomir, and doesn't really succeed in coping.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Insipired by meldy-arts‘ picture:http://meldy-arts.tumblr.com/post/152122729639/coping, I felt like writing what would lead into this moment, and what might be going through Sabine and Ezra's heads in it. This was written a while before "Visions and Voices", but isn't particularly non-canon - bar the fact Ezra lost an arm in the process.
> 
> This was originally intended to be platonic in nature, but I later wrote more romantic follow ups, hence the tags.

Ezra’s arm felt cold.

This statement wasn’t quite true – he didn’t even have an arm anymore, lost as it was ever since…  Well, it was lost.

He did have a replacement, the rebellion had taken care of that.  (He’d looked up how much artificial limbs cost once, he was fairly sure he wasn’t worth _that_ much cash, especially when pilots died in A-Wings that lacked the parts to manoeuvre quickly enough.)  

Ezra was fairly sure he was supposed to think it was his arm, by this point.  After all, it was basically acting like one – the odd glitch-y tremor aside.

But his arm shouldn’t feel cold.  His arm shouldn’t need to be looked at by a technician every week for the next month.  His arm should be warm, should be his.

He’d heard that a lot of people quickly felt their new limb _was_ their old one – feeling phantom itches and stiffness where no muscles or (real) skin lay.  (Though maybe synth-skin would make the limb more like his.)  Instead he just felt an aching chill against where his _real_ body ended.

Was the cold he felt even the metal against his flesh?  Perhaps he could still feel his _real_ arm out there – through the force – freezing on some desolate rock.

Ezra sat up in his bunk – he doubted he would get any sleep tonight anyway.  

With practised ease, he twisted over to the ladder.  Untangling himself from the sheet, he slipped down the ladder - A slight _clang_ of metal almost gave him away – his metal hand had hit the ladder.

Safely out in the corridor, away from Zeb’s twitching, he found himself muttering every profanity he remember - he really hoped the synth-skin would arrive soon. He _never_ wanted to look at that _kriffing_ lump of useless metal agai-

“Can’t sleep either?”

Sabine was there - hunched by the Dejarik table, scratching at a page of her latest sketchbook.

“Ah, Sabine, I uh-“

“I’m having trouble with that too” she sighed, “what’s the point in trying to hide it from me?”

Ezra looked at her – actually looked – and saw that she’d had a fair few nights like this.  She hadn’t even bothered with taking her armour or holsters off this time, let alone actually lain down.  Instead she’d just taken all her frustrations and anxieties out on her latest work – unless holes in the paper were part of the aesthetic.

A slight movement from Sabine let Ezra know she wanted him to sit with her.  With a little reluctance, he accepted the unspoken offer – sitting on the worn sofa – letting his tired eyes wonder over the mess of pencil scratchings on the page in front of him.

“You can't deal with this either, can you?”

It was almost silly to say, once it was spoken.  No-one who’d been there wasn’t scarred in some way, hadn’t felt the green take what was theirs away.  

Ezra’s hand twitched again, bashing against Sabine’s knee.

It was like something broke, just then.  Hot tears forced their way out, despite his best efforts.  Now that they’d started, he couldn’t quite seem to stop.

* * *

Sabine was suffering too. She’d spent the last couple of nights trying to feel like herself again – sketching and stencilling in a mad rush – anything to get the feelings of helplessness out of her body.

She’d always feared this, on some level.  That, despite all her efforts to break away from control and conformity, she’d become just someone’s puppet.  Well, now it had happened.  She supposed she just had to go on living, despite all that fear and anger that churned whenever she wasn’t focusing on something else.

Right now though, this was about Ezra.

His body had been taken over as well, but he’d never get it back.  Not completely.  

As the sobs began, she thought a little about what she hoped she would do if this happened to her…  

She’d paint the limb, she was sure.  Make it hers again, not just some factory-made replica.  Not hide it, try to pretend the trauma never happened, but show it – make it about her strength.  Mandalorians bear their scars proudly, after all.

But Ezra was a Jedi.  She had no idea how he could make him feel like he was complete again.

So she drew an arm around him, gently pulling him into leaning on her.  She’d help him, even if she was hurt too.  The whole crew’d been hurt, time after time, but they kept each other together.  They always would.


End file.
